Captive
by ladygris
Summary: Taken captive by Michael, Carson Beckett must find the will to survive.  Carson-whump.  Answer to The Clubhouse Carson Beckett Thunk/Whump thread challenge. Not a death fic.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing related to Stargate: Atlantis, nor any of its fantastic characters.

**Author's Note:** This story started out as an answer to the Carson Beckett Thunk/Whump Thread challenge on The Clubhouse. It went on to become something of a learning experience for me, as well as a story to try to fill in a few gaps. I suppose you could use this as a prequel to any of my clone!Carson stories. This story, however, is pure whump. No relationship this time outside of team friendship. The challenge was to use a pic of Carson (from "Misbegotten") and use it as a springboard for our story. This one took a rather dark turn for me, and contains spoilers for anything up to "Misbegotten" and "Kindred, Part 2." Special thanks to **Ani-Maniac494** for beta work, as well as the girls over on the Clubhouse Carson thread. You've all been a big help. Also, for the record, this story is completely written and should post every other day or so. I hope you enjoy!

oOo

He woke to a needle being pulled from his neck. He felt the tug, but he couldn't open his eyes for a moment. But he heard sounds. Strange sounds, almost like. . . . .

Carson's eyes snapped open, his hand naturally coming up to rub the injection site on his neck. It didn't get very far—maybe an inch off of the mattress—before encountering the restraints. He blinked at his surroundings. Dark. Organic. Green lights reflecting off of screens that resembled skin. And a hard metal slab for a bed. Movement caught his attention, and he turned his head a bit too quickly. Nausea nearly overwhelmed him, but he stifled the gag and glared as Michael set down the massive needle he'd just used.

The Wraith turned, his short white hair spiked and glowing in the blue-ish lights. "Good, you're awake."

Carson refused to comment.

Michael laughed. "Be angry all you want. I've just injected you with a serum designed to make you more compliant to my wishes."

Carson clenched his teeth together and turned his gaze to the ugly ceiling. So, he was Michael's captive. He stared as he slowly pieced the events of the last few days together. Or weeks? How long had he been out?

He'd joined Colonel Sheppard on another misguided attempt to make Wraith into humans. Granted, this time had a very good reason. The only way to survive had been to disseminate the retrovirus on a Hive ship. They'd been stranded in the void between galaxies and needed a ride home. Major Lorne had bunked down in the bridge of the damaged _Daedalus_ while Michael towed the ship with Atlantis's newly-acquired Hive. That one decision resulted in nearly two hundred new humans, as well as the dilemma of what to do about Michael.

_I'm just glad he's not gonna remember this._ Carson's words from just a few. . . .How long had it been? Days? Weeks? He'd been on that rock with the Wraith-turned-humans for two weeks, so it had been quite some time. Anyway, his words came back to haunt him. Of course Michael remembered. And, when he did, he was more than a little angry.

That Wraith moved to Carson's side. "Dr. Beckett, you cannot believe that you are innocent in this. After all, it is by your own hand that I find myself in the situation I currently am."

"Oh, and what's that?"

Michael smiled, his teeth a grotesque testament to his race's inability to eat normal food. "In command of a cruiser hiding on the edge of the galaxy. Your actions—and those of your friends on Atlantis—have put me in the position of taking you hostage. You, Dr. Beckett, are going to make this right."

"Not bloody likely."

"Resist all you want." Michael headed for the door, stopping to glance back. "Eventually, you will comply."

Carson listened to the door close behind him and let out a deep breath. His head pounded, probably a side-effect of the drugs Michael had used, and his normal remedy couldn't help. He usually pinched the bridge of his nose, taking a few deep breaths to calm his nerves. That "mind over matter" approach worked most often, as did the sudden rush of oxygen that helped re-energize him when he needed it. Today, he tried drawing a few deep breaths, but he couldn't.

He was a captive, taken along with Michael when the Wraith escaped that world—M8G-352. But that didn't matter. Colonel Sheppard and his team would come for him. Elizabeth wouldn't leave her Chief of Medicine in the hands of the Wraith, particularly one as vindictive as Michael. It just wouldn't happen. He simply needed to resist whatever twisted torture Michael had in mind and hang on long enough for his people to rescue him. He _could_ do that. He'd endured a super-volcano, working alongside Wraith, having the Goa'uld plant a bomb on Atlantis, and any number of other, heart-wrenching things since his arrival in the Pegasus galaxy. If Rodney McKay could endure being a captive on one of these ships—in a cocoon, no less—Carson Beckett could survive being Michael's captive for a few days.

Content in his decision but infinitely uncomfortable in his position, Carson closed his eyes and tried to sleep.

oOo

Carson woke again to Michael coming into the room. He couldn't tell how long he'd been asleep, but the hum of the ship had changed. He turned his head, hoping Michael would give something away. He didn't. He simply motioned to two Wraith drones, who roughly removed Carson's restraints and dragged him to his feet. Heedless of his numb legs, they shoved him through the halls of the Wraith cruiser, jabbing stunners into his back when he stumbled. He had no choice but to go along with them, reminding himself that he'd be less injured if he went along with their plans.

Michael led them into a small closet and, after the drones pushed Carson inside, activated a control on the door. The light of a Wraith beam enveloped them, and Carson blinked in the sudden change in brightness. He was on a planet of some sort. The warehouses were three stories high and looked like something straight out of a 1930s tenement in New York City. Not that Carson had ever seen anything like that, but he'd read plenty of US history before joining the SGC. When he'd been younger, he'd debated between medical school and teaching history. At this exact moment, he wished he'd chosen to teach history. He'd be back on Earth, safely ensconced in a classroom in Glasgow, teaching Scottish children about the rich heritage of their country. Not pushed along by aliens who wanted nothing more than to suck the life out of him. Though, out of the two options, the second one had more adventure.

The inside of the tenement building showed dim light through grimy glass, and Carson stumbled over debris in his path. He'd finally regained feeling in his legs, however, and the shuffling pace had increased. Michael walked directly to an iron door complete with massive lock and opened it. The tiny cell was less inviting than the slab on the Wraith cruiser, and the drones shoved Carson inside. He barely kept his footing as the drones turned and walked away.

Michael stood in the doorway. "Get your rest, Dr. Beckett. You will need it."

The door slammed with a resounding clang.

Carson let out a deep breath and looked around. The cell had a single, high window, too small for him to climb through but just enough to let fresh air circulate into the room. A crude toilet and washbasin stood against the other end of the narrow room, with nothing more than a slab of wood hanging from the wall by chains, a single woolen blanket which looked suspiciously like the ones issued by the US military, and a set of prison garb. Carson glanced down at his Atlantis uniform, seeing the dirt marring the bright yellow panels on his jacket. He likely needed to preserve his jacket for as much time as possible. Who knew if Michael would give him more than he already had, and the nights might get cold?

Carson's mind went into survivor mode at that moment. Atlantis would come for him. He _knew_ it. But he couldn't sit around and simply wait for them to show up. He'd have to be proactive about surviving.

Decision made, he unzipped his scuffed jacket and shrugged out of it. He still wore the gray and black t-shirt he'd had on back on that planet, and the fresh air on his arms actually felt somewhat good. Looking around, he found a place to hang the jacket where the chains for the wooden bed hooked into the wall, and he moved to the washbasin. The spigot turned with a squeak, and the water flowed orange at first. Carson let it continue to flow, seeing how it drained out the bottom of the basin and onto the floor to run down a drain. That could be a problem health-wise if not properly corrected. But he couldn't worry.

Finally, the residual rust in the waterlines cleared, and the water flowed clear. It was tepid at best, but Carson washed his face and arms, feeling better for cleaning the grime from his body. If his friends didn't show up soon, he'd insist on some sort of arrangement for bathing. Certainly Michael couldn't refuse that. He'd have to agree or risk Carson becoming ill from disease anyway.

Shaking his hands dry, Carson sat down on the bench and leaned his head against the back wall. He was a captive. Of Michael. Somehow, there was poetic justice in that. Even he could see it. Michael had been taken captive by Atlantis, and he'd simply repaid the debt. It didn't mean Carson would comply with Michael's wishes. When Michael had learned the truth, he'd not even complied. Why would Carson do any less?

Determined to wait this out, Carson let out a deep breath and enjoyed the fresh air flowing over his face.

oOo

Michael let him linger in that cell for two days. Carson kept time via the shift in sunlight through the window. He tried to stay awake that first day, but he eventually fell asleep. When he woke, the night had passed, and the morning sun hit him squarely in the face. He blinked and sat up, using some of the tepid water to wash the sleep from his eyes. After making himself as comfortable as possible, he started pacing. Then he sat. Then, he tried climbing to see through the window. When that didn't work, he tried to jump and grab the ledge. Just as he'd pulled himself up enough to see through—he suddenly thanked Sheppard for making him do pull-ups in the Atlantis gym—the door opened. He dropped back onto his feet, scraping his forearms on the way down, as a Wraith drone carried a bowl of unappetizing gruel into the cell.

Michael followed. "Dr. Beckett, I see you are making yourself at home."

Carson stared at him, his face hardening. Michael may have been civil in tone, but he was the enemy.

The Wraith shrugged. "It is no matter. You must eat, and I have provided food." He dropped a hunk of bread next to the bowl. "You will need your strength, Doctor."

Carson continued to stare.

Michael laughed. "Resist me all you want, Dr. Beckett. In time, you will do _everything_ I ask."

_No,_ he tried to say. But, for some reason, it wouldn't come out of his mouth.

Michael turned and left the room, locking the door from the outside. Carson remained in his corner, debating his options. He could try to rush them the next time they came, but that would likely result in his being stunned before he got very far. Or he could bide his time, look for an opening, and get the lay of the land. Either way, he'd need his strength.

Resigned to the food for now, he settled on the bench and used the bread to add flavor to the tasteless gruel. Some tepid water from the spigot washed it down, and he rinsed the scrapes on his arm. He hadn't got a glimpse outside, yet, but he would. Eventually. And, when he did, he'd make his escape.

oOo

The next day, Michael delivered Carson's meal with the warning that he'd better get dressed. Carson rolled his eyes and wolfed down the only meal he'd get that day. Today, the tasteless gruel seemed like a gourmet meal, and he finished it off while trying to preserve some of the bread for later that day. He failed miserably.

The Wraith drones returned, jabbing stunners into his ribs and herding him toward some sort of lab. It wasn't a Wraith-built facility, simply Wraith technology in an abandoned warehouse on an abandoned world. He enjoyed the short time he was outdoors and blinked the temporary sun-blindness from his eyes when he was shoved unceremoniously inside the lab. Michael stood in the middle of a bunch of equipment, including technology that looked vaguely Genii. For the first time in his life, Carson wished he'd never started working on Atlantis. He wouldn't have the expertise to work here. Of course, that meant Michael wouldn't keep him alive.

Michael nodded, and the drones left the room. "Dr. Beckett, welcome to your new lab."

"_My_ new lab? Don't you mean your house of horrors?"

Michael laughed humorlessly. "Your people have such strange concepts, Dr. Beckett. But this is indeed your lab. And what more could you want?"

"I could think of a few things."

Michael simply looked at him for a long moment. "No matter. _This _is where you will work."

"On what?"

"Your retrovirus, of course." Michael walked around the lab, running his hand over the various equipment. "I have collected everything you might need to perfect your retrovirus."

"And what makes you think I'll help you with that? Especially considering. . . .?"

"Considering that you have used it on me multiple times?" Michael glared. "I want to use the retrovirus for something completely different, Dr. Beckett. I do not wish to simply convert Wraith into humans for feeding. I wish. . . ." He walked forward and stared into Carson's face. ". . .to combine Wraith and human DNA so that I might create an army that will destroy the Wraith."

"And after that?" Carson forced himself not to cringe back at Michael's horrible breath. Did these Wraith never hear of mouthwash? "No."

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me." Carson met Michael's eyes. "I'm not about to give you the ability to dominate this galaxy. You'll have to kill me, first."

Michael grinned and laughed. "Resist all you want, Dr. Beckett. You _will_ help me do this."

"No, I won't."

"We shall see." Michael left then, locking the door behind him.

Carson walked around the room, grateful for the room to stretch his legs. This room had cobwebs in the high corners and covering much of the furniture. But it seemed relatively clear of any kind of vermin. For a while, Carson simply walked. Enjoyed the sunlight and large area. Then, he looked over the equipment and shook his head. He couldn't do this. He couldn't create something that would be worse than the Wraith.

"As if that's possible," he whispered.

Resigned to his temporary fate, Carson Beckett walked over to a corner and sat down on the floor. Pulling up his knees, he propped his arms on them and simply waited.

~TBC


	2. Chapter 2

Carson spent the next three days sitting in the corner of Michael's lab or sitting in the corner of his cell. At night, he fell asleep in position and typically moved to the wooden slab in the wee hours of the morning just to stretch his muscles. There was no way he would do what Michael asked him to do. After all, Colonel Sheppard and his team would be coming for him any day now. They were likely out scouring the galaxy, looking for him. It was only a matter of time, and he just had to hold out until then.

He also ate only one meal a day. Michael promised more food when he began working, but Carson refused that, as well. In those three days, he ignored the headache, weakness, and shakiness brought on by hypoglycemic reactions as his body adjusted to the decreased amount of nutrition. And he stopped wolfing everything down, choosing to use only a small portion of the bread to wash down the gruel and save the bread for the evening. Between that and the tepid water the spigot brought him, he'd be able to survive for a time. A lot longer than if he had no nutrition whatsoever.

Carson also watched things. He listened. Every sound outside the lab seemed to register by the third day, though Carson knew that he'd likely imagined some of it. But he learned that the time he was transported to and from his cell was a weakness. Michael obviously didn't see him as a threat, and he reduced the number of drones escorting him from two to one. While he'd never be able to take out two drones, Carson was pretty confident he'd be able to take out one of them. Especially with what Michael had provided him in the lab.

On the fourth day, Carson never stumbled as they pushed him into the lab. He simply straightened his Atlantis uniform and glared as the drones locked him inside. Then, trying not to appear too eager, he paced around the table, fiddling with this and that. He'd been doing so for days, hoping to relieve the boredom by moving and keeping his muscles limber. Sitting in that corner, while satisfying in a childish, pouty sort of way, wasn't conducive to staying in shape. Not if he intended to make a run for the gate. . ._if_ he could find the gate. Either way, he was confident he could find a place to hide until he located the gate and dialed home.

Home. It sounded wonderful. He could close his eyes and see the Atlantis gateroom, the infirmary, faces of people he missed even though it hadn't yet been a month since he'd seen them. Elizabeth, with her wise eyes and diplomatic ways. She was the one Carson confided in when he simply couldn't work things out on his own. Sheppard, with that hair that stood on end and an irreverent grin. Carson could always depend on Sheppard's unorthodox methods and seeing the man in the infirmary after pulling off some impossible mission. Ronon, with his rough ways and penchant for not saying anything. The Big Man, as Carson called him, had finally softened enough to chat with Carson and the rest of his team. Teyla, with her beautiful eyes and almost Amazon fighting abilities. She'd frightened Carson a bit at first, and he liked to think of her with superpowers. And, of course, Rodney. Carson shook his head as he picked up a needle and eyed the contents of the vials and beakers on the table. Out of all the people on Atlantis, the caustic physicist had to be Carson's best friend. They got along well, in spite of Rodney's prickly manners and penchant for hypochondria. There was _no way_ those five people would leave him here, in Michael's custody, for too much longer.

But Carson had to give them a chance to find him. He touched the Wraith consoles in the room, skimming the information there. He'd done this several times the previous day as this plan formed in his mind. However, he was growing weaker from lack of nourishment, and he needed to execute some sort of action before he grew too weak to fight back. So, he started working. Michael came by about halfway through the day, not saying anything but simply watching. Carson kept working. The Wraith obviously assumed he'd agreed to do the research, and Carson allowed him to think that. _Won't he be surprised,_ he thought angrily.

Finally, by day's end, he had a viable sedative for the Wraith drone. At least, he thought it was a sedative. It could also kill the drone, something Carson was, ironically, not very worried about. He'd sworn to "do no harm," but the Hippocratic Oath likely didn't cover life-sucking aliens from another galaxy.

The drone appeared as the sun started to set, and Carson tidied up his area while slipping a needle up his sleeve. He needed to be careful not to inject himself with the poison as he was sure it would certainly kill him. The drone grabbed his arm and dragged him out of the lab, and Carson waited until they were between the lab and his cell. Then, he wrenched his arm away from the drone, and, before the creature could respond, jabbed the syringe into its belly, emptying the contents before it could reach for him. The drone roared, but Carson started running. He darted between two buildings and kept to the shadows.

He heard nothing for a few moments, but he decided it could be a deceptive calm. Michael wouldn't let him escape that easily. He ducked through buildings, peering around corners, and hopefully left a trail as confusing to his pursuers as it was to him. And he knew they were pursuing him. He ran until his lungs felt as if they would burst and pressed on. He couldn't let them take him, couldn't do the work Michael asked.

He rounded yet another corner, away from the cruiser he'd seen parked near the city, and tripped over the rubble. His face scraped the pavement, and he looked up in time to see Michael fire a Wraith stunner.

oOo

Carson woke to yet another needle, this one coming out of his arm. He sat up suddenly and groaned at the headache. Michael backed away and stood over him with disapproval radiating from him.

"You disappoint me, Dr. Beckett."

"I don't bloody care." Carson rubbed his head.

"The pain you are feeling is a result of the stunner I was forced to use on you and the mild concussion you sustained in your escape attempt." Michael held up the syringe. "I have also given you a mild sedative cocktail, something to make you. . .compliant."

"I've already told you I'm not doin' this research for you."

"No doubt you think your friends are coming to rescue you." Michael grinned. "I assure you, Dr. Beckett, they are nowhere near this planet."

Carson took the time to look around and realized he'd been moved. His cell no longer had the high window, and this one had enclosed plumbing as opposed to an open drain. A single light bulb—Genii, maybe—hung from the center of the ceiling.

"Yes, Dr. Beckett, you are on a different world." Michael narrowed his eyes. "The lab you used to create your little poison has since been destroyed. Did you think I was foolish enough to have only one lab with my research?"

"I'd hoped," Carson muttered.

Michael laughed. "Take your rest, Dr. Beckett. Tomorrow, you will begin your research." He left before Carson could make another smart remark.

After the door locked, Carson lay down on the hard bench. He felt awful. The injection site for the sedative Michael had just given him burned, and his head ached something fierce. Not to mention the nausea and chills he felt starting up. The last thing he needed right now was a fever or infection. At least he still wore his Atlantis uniform. He pulled the jacket closer around him and shifted onto his side, using the prison garb Michael provided as a pillow. Then, he closed his eyes and tried to ignore the pain.

oOo

True to his word, Michael appeared the next day. He opened the door, turned on the light Carson had extinguished late the night before, and motioned for two drones to yank Carson to his feet. The doctor groaned as his headache slammed into him again, and he blinked at the sudden brightness. So, the Wraith intended to try sensory deprivation, now?

Michael silently led the way to a new lab, this one looking very similar to the previous one save that it's layout was slightly different. The windows on this world faced a different direction and were covered in a bit more grime. And it was winter. By the time they gained the lab, Carson was shivering from the cold. At least the nausea and chills from whatever infection he'd picked up had faded sometime during the night.

In the lab, Michael circled the work bench and stared at Carson. "You will have constant supervision here."

"I'm still not doing this research for you." Carson forced himself to stand upright when all he wanted was to curl up and sleep.

Michael laughed. "You are still feeling the effects of the sedative I gave you, I see. It will wear off in a few hours. But this. . . ." He held out his hands. ". . . .will be your home for a while. I _will_ have my way, Dr. Beckett. Be assured of that."

Carson muttered a curse as the Wraith left the lab. This time, he locked two drones in the room with Carson. The doctor eyed the two, unnerved by the fact that he couldn't see their eyes, and walked around the lab. So, his last escape attempt hadn't worked. He'd simply have to figure something else out. Maybe a quick run for it. An explosion. Then, he discarded that idea. Laura was the bomb expert, and she'd returned to Earth months ago. Their relationship, while it had been great, had fizzled out shortly after Colonel Caldwell was released from the Goa'uld symbiote. Carson suspected that it had everything to do with their first kiss, but he couldn't be sure. He and Laura simply didn't fit.

After looking over everything there, Carson decided he wouldn't be able to concentrate and found himself a corner. Ignoring the grime, he slid down the wall and leaned his head back. The weak sun didn't hit this corner very much, and he closed his eyes and willed the headache to go away.

oOo

A month passed. Each day, Carson sat in his corner or walked in circles around the lab. Each night, he slept in the cold cell, using the prison garb as extra clothing. He always made sure to wear it beneath his Atlantis uniform. And he tried to escape. Every week, he had a different plan, a different medication, a different method. One of them actually killed the drone almost instantly, but the second drone had been too close. Carson woke to another headache from the Wraith stunner and more of that sedative from Michael. After the third escape attempt, during which he put his past wrestling experience from the university to use, Michael could not hold his temper and actually hit Carson.

The doctor sat in his lab the day after that one, nursing a black eye and what he suspected were two cracked ribs, trying to breathe past the pain. His headache, while ever-present, wasn't anywhere near as painful as the ribs. But Michael seemed thoroughly unconcerned with his physical condition, only his progress on the research. Today, Carson didn't care. Atlantis should have come by now, and he wavered between his belief that they would come and his desire to give up hope. Maybe he should just work for Michael.

No, he could never do that. He'd seen what the Wraith experiments with combining Wraith and human DNA had done to Teyla and her ancestors. While Teyla had the "superpower" of being able to sense the Wraith and tap into their telepathic network, it came at a risk. She could be influenced, and people like her tended to be ostracized. There was no way Carson would give Michael the ability to do such a thing.

But he might not have a choice. He'd hoped to be rescued by now, but a month was a long time to sit and do nothing. The boredom had long ago become a norm, and he entertained himself with fantasies of returning to Atlantis or returning to Scotland. He missed his mum, his home. And he wanted to see his family again.

Eventually, the fantasies became stale and mundane compared to reality. Every time he opened his eyes, he saw either his cell or the lab. He finally pushed all thoughts of them out of his mind and hoped for sleep every night. It eventually came, but he was plagued with nightmares about his escape attempts. He ultimately accepted his fate and prayed for the day when Colonel Sheppard would find him and take him back to Atlantis with the rest of the people. After all, Sheppard didn't leave people behind.

Did he?

oOo

The clang of his cell door opening brought Carson out of a sound sleep. He'd been resting—finally—without dreams of rescue or Atlantis or death by any number of cruel means. Yesterday, he'd made his most recent escape attempt, managing to take out _both_ drones with two well-placed syringes full of his special poison cocktail. He'd never imagined that he'd be reduced to surviving using his medical training, but it would, hopefully, get him home one day. Last night, Michael had changed. He'd calmly escorted Carson to his cell, given him another dose—the fourth this month—of sedative, and left him alone. The silence of the Wraith bothered Carson more than the beatings. And there'd been plenty of those, too. His ribs were just starting to heal from the last one.

Now, Carson sat up, stifling the groan from the headache. He'd finally figured out that the sedative caused the headache, not a concussion. Today, however, Michael shoved a young woman ahead of him. _What is this?_ Carson thought. _A new form of torture. Do the work, or she'll get beaten?_

Carson already knew that he'd rather do Michael's research than see this lovely young lady be injured in any way. His doctor's mind raced through different scenarios, ways he could extend both their lives. If she was locked in here with him as some sort of twisted game, then he'd be forced to take on the role of hero. Something he wasn't sure he had it in him to do.

The young woman, not more than twenty years old, cowered in a corner as Michael turned to Carson. Her hair fell around her face in auburn ringlets, and she wore what must have been a beautiful gown at one point in time. It looked like her planet had reached the Renaissance era, and she must have been the village leader's daughter. Or wife. Now, she tried to cower into the corner, but Michael wouldn't let her get away.

Michael regarded Carson with calculating eyes. "I have learned something about you, Dr. Beckett." The Wraith lifted his chin. "You care nothing for yourself. Your repeated attempts to escape, as well as your continued resistance to my terms, has given me no choice." He pulled out a wicked-looking knife and pressed the tip to the girl's neck. A drop of blood appeared, and the girl's eyes filled with tears.

"No!" Carson surged to his feet, but two Wraith drones were there to hold him back.

Michael turned, not removing the knife from her neck. "What did you say, Dr. Beckett?"

Carson glared. "I'll not be party to your attempts to terrorize the humans of this galaxy." He found the words and issued an ultimatum. "You'll have to kill me first."

"You misunderstand me, Dr. Beckett." Michael narrowed his eyes slightly. He moved quickly, and slipped the knife between the young lady's ribs. She fell to her knees as blood stained her once-beautiful gown. The Wraith calmly pulled the knife from her body and turned to face Carson. "You will do the research I have asked. Or, I will do this to another human tomorrow. And the next day. And every day you refuse."

He took the two drones and left, locking the door behind him.

Carson stared at the young woman, who still had some life left. Ignoring the blood, he pulled off his Atlantis jacket and pressed it to her wound, carefully brushing her hair from her eyes. Blood dripped from the corner of her mouth, and he knew there was nothing he could do to help her.

"I'm so sorry, lass," he whispered. Her hazel eyes found his, and she reached for his hand. Carson held it as she slipped from this world, and he held her gaze, trying to comfort her in spite of the tears in his own eyes. When the light in her eyes went out, he closed them and sat back on his heels to cry.

~TBC


	3. Chapter 3

Carson gently set the girl's hand on her stomach. He cradled her in his lap, holding her as if to offer her some sort of comfort. He'd read and wondered about a person's spirit, whether it hung around after death or went on to receive whatever reward. As a doctor and a man of science, he'd pushed away the hard questions of spirituality, choosing to focus on helping people live longer. He'd had his share of deathbed experiences, and he'd learned to be stoic, detached. To offer a simple hand on the shoulder of a grieving loved one or to be the one to hug him or her if necessary.

However, he'd never been the one grieving at a person's bedside. He'd watched as the survivors lingered, trying to find comfort. Some, like Teyla, were accepting and shed only a few tears. Others wept deeply. And others became hysterical. Carson simply pulled the girl close, ignoring the blood that now ruined his Atlantis uniform. If her spirit hovered, he preferred to offer what comfort he could now.

Tears slipped down his cheeks as he tried and failed to tell himself that this wasn't his fault. He'd spent the last month enduring Michael's torture methods, but none of them had been this bad. This young lady's death could have been prevented. He had the expertise to have saved her. Yes, it would have been close, and she still might have died. But he would have been able to do _something_.

"I'm so sorry, lass," he said again. This time, it wasn't the strong doctor that spoke. It was a broken man, one who had endured a bit too much. He could handle the beatings, the injections, the escape attempts. He could get through that because he had no choice. But this. . .? Michael knew exactly what to do to get under Carson's skin. The death of innocent people due to his resistance to doing Michael's research was too great of a burden for him to bear.

Carson leaned his head back against the wall and let out a deep breath. Genetic research was a slippery slope, as he'd once told Perna. He'd already gone down that path with Michael, and look where he'd ended up. Could he do that again? Could he be responsible for genetically altering a human being's DNA so that he or she became more like a Wraith? Looking down at the girl still in his arms, he thought he could, if only to have saved her life.

He sat and held her until Michael's drones returned. They roughly pulled her out of his arms—something he was suddenly too tired to prevent—and dragged her away. Carson watched until the door slammed in his face. He should have stood, should have insisted that she be treated with some level of dignity. After all, he was a doctor. But he couldn't move.

Once the door was closed, his tears returned. He'd cried only a few times since coming to Pegasus. The first time was when Perna died. Carson still remembered walking out of that medical center, drained of anything save exhaustion and heartache, only to find Hoff's chancellor holding the results of a vote. The Hoffan people had plotted their own demise, and Carson had tried everything in his power to stop it. Watching Perna struggle to breathe had crushed him, and he never wanted another person to go through that. He never wanted to feel that helpless again.

And, yet, he had. Not right away, of course. The Wraith had come to Atlantis, and Carson had worked in his nice, bright infirmary to patch up the wounded soldiers and offer comfort to those whose lives were too far gone. He'd lost Ford, but that hadn't stung this deeply. With Ford, the man had _chosen_ to walk away from Atlantis and their help. He grieved for the boy, of course, but it didn't feel quite so painful. Especially after Ford held a gun on him and shot up part of the infirmary. Carson regretted giving the Wraith enzyme to the lad, but he'd done so to save the lives of others in the infirmary. And saving lives was the exact reason Carson Beckett had become a doctor.

The next time he'd cried was during that entire Ellia debacle. Carson hadn't allowed anyone to see those tears, though. Ellia might have been a Wraith, but Colonel Sheppard was a friend. Carson had taken the time to escape to his office and shed a few quiet tears before telling Elizabeth that there was nothing he could do for Sheppard. Then, he'd stood by stoically as she left his office in her own fit of emotion. His epiphany about the pheromones Colonel Sheppard emitted prevented more tears, and Carson had been able to hang on to his emotions since then. Even losing Michael hadn't stung, because Michael wasn't human. Was he?

Carson shook his head, using the back of his hand to wipe away the tears that remained. What was he to do besides comply with Michael's wishes? He couldn't stand by and allow another human being to be slaughtered because of his actions. Of course, even working for Michael would cause more human suffering. It was a trade-off, Carson knew, and he'd made it for the sake of survival.

Decision made, he stood and walked to the sink. As he washed the young lady's blood from his hands, he shed what he hoped would be his final tears over the incident, watching the water cleanse the physical blood even though he knew he'd always have metaphoric blood on his hands. His decision to help Michael confirmed that.

oOo

The next morning, Michael opened Carson's cell door very early in the morning. Carson blinked at the light, not having slept very well the previous night. He'd mentally apologized to every person he could think of, and it had kept him from finding rest in his dreams of rescue. Now, he waited while Michael dragged yet another person—a young man this time—into his cell.

"Shall we go through this again, Dr. Beckett?"

Carson almost refused at first. Then, he thought about the previous day. About the girl. He couldn't allow this young man to be murdered in cold blood. "No."

"I did not hear you, Dr. Beckett." Michael faced him.

"I said. . . ." Carson took a deep breath. "No."

"No, you will not work for me?" Michael eyed the young man in glee. "Or, no, we will not go through this again?"

Carson tried to breathe past the lump in his throat. This went against everything he'd stood for, everything he'd sworn to uphold. "No, we won't go through this again. I'll do what you want."

Michael shoved the young man toward the two drones waiting for him and stepped closer to Carson. He eyed the blood stained clothing Carson still wore. "Change your clothing, Dr. Beckett. You would not wish to contaminate your research with DNA from yesterday's unfortunate incident."

Carson stood in the same place until the door slammed and locked. He'd avoided wearing the prison garb as anything other than underclothing for a month, hoping that he'd be rescued and could return to Atlantis with his pride intact. But this latest decision negated that. He wearily stripped the blood-stained pants from his body and pulled on the prison jumpsuit. It buttoned up the front and hung on him, but he rolled the sleeves away from his hands. The drab gray color did nothing more than remind him of his status. He was Michael's prisoner.

The drones returned a short time later, escorting Carson to the lab. Michael stood in the lab, a gleeful expression on his face. Carson shuffled over to him, determined to research everything here but at the slowest pace possible. The longer he stalled, the better his chances of being rescued. He just needed to hold out a bit longer.

Michael motioned to the table, and Carson trudged over. He glanced over the implements there, seeing the Wraith data displayed on the screen. He turned to Michael. "It will take me time to get through the data you've already collected."

Michael let out a breath, making it sound like a hiss. "Do not take too long, Dr. Beckett. My patience only extends so far."

Carson glared at him. "If you want me to combine Wraith and human DNA, you'll give me as long as I need. This isn't something that can just be done at the drop of a hat! There are many things to consider in this process!"

"I am aware of that."

"Then give me the time I need!"

"You will have the time that _I_ deem necessary." Michael walked toward Carson, stopping so close that Carson could smell his horrible breath. "You forget, Dr. Beckett. I am also a scientist. I will _know_ when you are stalling. Or do I need to remind you of the consequences of ignoring my demands?"

"No." Carson turned away, already hating what he'd become. He walked toward the Wraith console and started scrolling through the information. Michael seemed content that he'd begun the work and left him alone.

The days passed slowly. Within a week, Carson knew exactly what Michael wanted from him. He'd been researching ways to combine Wraith and human DNA to create a hybrid of sorts. Michael wanted all the strengths of the Wraith without any of the weaknesses. Namely, the need to feed. In order to do what Michael wanted, Carson would have to weed out selective portions of the Iratus DNA while still leaving other portions of it behind. It could be done, but it would take months of research to have a viable prototype.

On the evening of Day Six, as he'd begun numbering them, Carson was escorted back to his cell and found Michael waiting for him. The inevitable syringe appeared in Michael's hand, and Carson waited patiently until he'd been injected. This sedative cocktail must create some sort of addictive behavior, because he'd begun to feel ill and slightly feverish as the day wore on. The relief the cocktail brought wouldn't be immediate, and he'd suffer the headache for at least another day. But he'd become accustomed to working through it.

"Take your rest," Michael said. Then, he left the cell.

Carson dropped onto the wooden slab hanging from the wall, noticing for the first time that Michael had provided a rough mattress and pillow. His blanket remained, as well. He curled into a ball and ignored the sick feeling brought on by the work he'd done. If he could only sleep, he'd feel better when he woke.

oOo

By Day Thirty, Carson had failed at several simulations and nearly gave up. Michael brought another human to the lab and nearly fed on her. Carson stood and shuffled back to work, but Michael didn't spare her life. He simply removed her from sight but made sure Carson heard him feeding from the other side of the thin door. Carson closed his eyes and clenched his teeth until it was over. Then, he returned to the proverbial drawing board to create another serum. The monsters created by the first two serums had been extinguished and left to rot.

On Day Fifty-nine, Carson collapsed. The winter had changed to summer, and the heat in his cell and the lab became too much. He'd fought the effects of dehydration for a week, drinking as much water as possible. But it apparently wasn't enough. He woke on Michael's table, feeling the injection of another needle. Michael explained that the sedative cocktail had reacted badly, and Carson was now on a new version of the cocktail. This time, the injection didn't burn, and Carson drifted to sleep right away. He woke without the inevitable headache or illness. In fact, he felt stronger than he had for months and wondered exactly what Michael had given him.

Three more months passed. Carson worked daily, receiving two meals a day rather than just one. And he wondered if he'd ever escape. While the sedative cocktail worked better and had fewer side effects, Carson knew he'd become addicted. He felt the weakness begin to settle in on the sixth day, the chills and fever on the seventh. Michael never allowed him to go more than seven days without an injection, and Carson worried about track marks on his arms when he was finally rescued.

Six months after his agreement to work with Michael, he sat back from the Wraith computer he'd used to run simulations. He bit his lip ever so slightly as he debated what to do now. The last of the simulations had succeeded and, as a doctor, he knew the next step was live tests. Had he been working on the retrovirus, he wouldn't have hesitated to tell Dr. Weir about his success as well as warning her of the implications. Not this time. The last time, he'd hesitated to consider the long-term implications, and he'd wound up creating the monster who now held him captive. Telling Michael would undoubtedly result in more senseless death.

Michael breezed into the lab at the end of the day to find Carson slouched in a corner. He eyed the doctor but went to the console to consult his work. Carson had sat in that corner for the better part of three hours, debating his options.

Michael turned suddenly. "You are certain of this?"

"Aye." Carson glared. "I've run the simulations three times now."

Michael bared his teeth in what must have been the Wraith version of a grin. "You have done well, Dr. Beckett."

Carson didn't even deign that statement with a response.

Michael motioned to the drones, who came forward and pulled Carson to his feet. "Thank you for your help, Dr. Beckett. You have earned your reward."

For one insane moment, Carson expected Michael's feeding hand to slam into his chest. Instead, the Wraith pulled him from the lab and took him to a new cell. This one was larger, with another high window and a bigger bed. But it was still a prison cell.

Carson stayed there for seven days. Michael appeared once to give him an injection, but he left Carson alone with his thoughts after that. When the drones finally appeared to take him back to the lab, Carson went willingly out of his intense need to escape those four walls. They didn't lead him back to the lab where he'd spent the last six months working, but rather directed him to a different warehouse. This one had been set up to resemble some sort of macabre hospital, with metal beds and restraints all around the room.

Michael waited for him. "What do you think, Dr. Beckett?" When Carson didn't answer, he shrugged. "No matter. This is where you'll do the next step in your research."

"What next step?"

"Live testing." Michael made it sound like Carson had asked a stupid question. Which he had, but he refused to admit it. "I have found patients for you to give your serum to, and you will help me monitor them."

"Now wait just a minute." Carson yanked his arms away from the Wraith drones. "You can't just go innoculatin' innocent people."

Michael regarded him sadistically. "Why? Is that not what you did to me?"

Carson closed his eyes for just a moment. Truth be told, he'd been less than caring about the Wraith they'd captured and turned into a human. Michael had a point. "They're innocent."

"And you suppose that, because I'm a Wraith, I am not?" Michael held up his feeding hand, regarding it thoughtfully. "Have you not once considered that, as Wraith, we are forced to seek out humans for our consumption? Your own kind eats animals you deem as lower than you on the food chain."

"Aye, but our animals aren't. . . . ."

"Aren't what?" Michael interrupted. "They feel pain, just as you. They are intelligent, though they speak in languages different than your own. Why should I feel sympathy for my source of nutrition? You clearly do not."

"I didn't," Carson muttered. He didn't want to get into an animal rights discussion with a _Wraith_, of all things, but it seemed to be the direction Michael wanted to take the conversation. "Though I likely will from now on."

"Good." Michael seemed happy with the turn of the conversation. He nodded to one of the drones, and that creature went to a door and opened it. A group of thirty or so captives came out, all of them looking weary and underfed.

"What is this?" Carson asked, glaring at Michael.

"These," Michael said as he walked toward the group, "are your subjects."

"No!" Carson shook his head. "It's not ready! We can't take this to live subjects yet. We don't know what side effects it will have, how their unique genetic dispositions will respond, or any of it!"

Michael stopped beside one of the women, a pretty blond who clung to her young son while the teenager tried to act brave. He regarded Carson briefly and then slammed his feeding hand into the boy's chest. Carson hollered and rushed forward, but one of the drones clothes-lined him in the gut. He doubled over, his ribs still tender from badly-healed fractures. As he tried to breathe, the boy's mother screamed and fought, resulting in her being stunned along with any of the other prisoners who tried to resist. Carson pushed himself to his feet and would have moved forward, but the drone struck him again, this time at the base of his skull. He collapsed to the ground and watched in agony as Michael drained the life from the teenager.

Turning to the doctor, the Wraith grinned. "Now, you shall begin."

~TBC


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note:** This chapter contains the Hippocratic Oath-or, rather, a version thereof. I used one I found online-I can get the website for anyone who is interested-and I spent hours on the website for the University of St. Andrews, researching graduation requirements and procedures. As I have never been to Scotland nor graduated from a university, my understanding is limited to what I have available. I also took a good deal of the ceremony, namely the taking of the Oath, from my sister-in-law's nurse's pinning and capping. From all my research, I found out that not all colleges take the Hippocratic Oath, and I could not find a procedure for it. So, I filled in the blanks. Hope everyone enjoys! ~lg

oOo

Carson spent hours in the "hospital," as Michael insisted he call it. He monitored the victims of his experimentation, silently apologizing to each of them. Of course, Michael insisted they be given the same sedative cocktail that Carson received, but on a much more frequent basis. That left them in a sort of stupor, awake but not coherent enough to react to anything. It didn't mean Carson didn't try to make their lives more comfortable.

At first, it seemed the serum he'd devised was working. It added select portions of the Iratus DNA, but Carson couldn't be sure of how they'd react. He'd not had enough time with these particular patients to be certain. The mother of the teenager Michael fed on died the next day, but Carson suspected it had more to do with her state of mind than the drug itself. He continued administering the regimen, eying the Wraith drones at the door and wondering if he could get away with giving placebos. _No,_ he thought. _Michael will know, and he'll kill another innocent person. I can't have that._

So, he continued in his work. Every patient received a gentle hand on the shoulder, an extra few moments each day, and a few tears shed in a corner when the pain caused them to cry out. Carson kept his emotions at bay while dealing with them, years of doctoring the sick coming to the fore. But, at night, he returned to his cell with slumped shoulders to drop onto his mattress and wonder if he'd finally crossed the line. Had he reached the point of no return?

Five days after administering the first dose, Carson noticed the initial changes. The first patients became even more lethargic than normal, and their skin began to turn that creepy shade of green-blue that typified the Wraith. However, their eyes didn't change the way Michael's had when he'd reverted to his Wraith form. Instead, they stared for hours on end. At first, Carson thought a state of catatonia had set in, but the patients moved when he least expected it. The first time, he jumped and dropped a syringe full of the serum. The second time, he simply touched the man's shoulder and pressed on.

He also took extensive notes. The catatonic or near-catatonic patients were monitored closely. Michael came daily and looked over them, seeming to take pleasure in their suffering. Carson ignored the Wraith when he complimented the work, choosing instead to swallow the bile that rose at the accolades. He'd taken an oath, and he'd violated it.

The first patient died on Day Six. He'd gone into a purely catatonic state late the day before, and organ failure set in late that night. Carson was dragged from his cell to see to his patient before realizing that others were likely in the same boat. He spent the remainder of the night running tests on the entire lot and coming to one conclusion.

His serum didn't work. And it was deadly.

When he realized this, Carson threw the closest thing at hand across the room. The Wraith drones looked on impassively, but Carson didn't care. He'd just killed thirty people.

From that moment on, he merely made them comfortable. Though, in retrospect, it couldn't have been an easy way to go. Though he'd been forced into the position of administering the drug, he refused to end their suffering prematurely. Halfway through that horrible day, Michael appeared.

"Dr. Beckett, I was told there is a problem."

"Aye, there's a problem!" Carson whirled from where he'd been trying to ease the suffering of a middle-aged woman. "These people are dyin', that's the problem!"

"Why?"

"Because of this bloody drug!" He sneered at the Wraith and tossed the syringe he'd had in his pocked onto this work bench.

Michael looked over the remaining patients, seeing the three tables bearing sheet-draped bodies. "Then end it."

"What?" Carson glared. "No! I can't just. . . ."

"Your serum failed, Dr. Beckett," Michael interrupted. "The prudent course of action would be to end their suffering and create a new one."

"I can't just end it!" Carson stood as close to Michael as he dared. He still didn't trust the Wraith not to feed on him, though Michael could move much faster than he could. "I'm a doctor, not a monster! I won't kill them simply because the serum didn't work!"

Michael held his glare, almost reading Carson's mind. For a moment, Carson felt like he was back in that bed on M8G-352. Then, Michael's influence withdrew from his mind, and he nodded. "Fine. Do what you feel is necessary. But you will begin working on a new serum tomorrow."

Carson stood in place as the Wraith left the room. He took a moment to let out a deep breath before he turned back to his patients. He felt sick, not uncommon in his situation, though this was deeper than just the physical turning of his stomach. He felt this loss to the core of his being. These people deserved compassion, but he could only give them medication to ease their passing.

By day's end, the last patient had passed from life. Carson covered her body with a sheet and walked over to the workbench he'd set up. He leaned against it, more disgusted and angry than he'd ever been. In a rare fit of rage, he swiped his hand across the workbench, scattering beakers, needles, Wraith data devices, and the drugs he'd used to help ease their suffering. The tears he'd held at bay came to the surface as he collapsed onto the floor. He couldn't stop them any more than he could stop the deaths of so many.

Had he made the right choice? Carson pulled his knees up and propped his arms on them. He'd agreed to work with Michael to prevent deaths. And, yet, that's exactly what he'd caused. More death. In trying to stop a single death a day, he'd caused thirty more. A little voice told him that he couldn't have been responsible for a single death a day, but he ignored it. By now, he would have witnessed one hundred and eighty six deaths, not simply thirty-three. It was the lesser of two evils.

The two Wraith drones came forward and dragged him to his feet. He went with them, mindless of his surroundings. When they shoved him into his cell, he stood with his back to the door while they locked him inside. How did he cope with the deaths he'd caused? How could he? Some would say he had no choice, that he was a prisoner and had been tortured. But he knew better. He'd agreed to this to _prevent_ the torture.

Tired of the thoughts, Carson ignored the cold meal in the corner and laid down, staring at the ceiling and trying not to think until sleep finally came.

oOo

_Carson wore a black silk cassock, cinched at the waist with a Medici Crimson cincture. He carried a long hood of the same color in his hands as he approached the Chancellor of the University of St. Andrews. He'd worked so hard for this day, and he felt the weight of what he was about to do. Along with many others, he was about to take the Hippocratic Oath and swear to uphold it before God and everyone. Somewhere in this crowd, his parents watched, more proud than he could understand. As the youngest of seven children, they'd watched each of his six elder siblings choose various degrees and graduate from different universities. But he was the only one to graduate with his medical degree._

_He knew that he would have achieved honors in the United States, but having the joint degrees of Bachelor of Medicine and Bachelor of Surgery was enough. He'd be able to fulfill the one thing that drove him to become a doctor: the desire to help others. He'd considered teaching, going to university in Glasgow, and taking a position there as soon as his education was complete. But he'd been lucky enough to make it into St. Andrews. When that happened, he chose his path for life. And he was not ashamed. His time in the course had proven his love for medicine, something that none of his siblings had shared. And he'd already been offered a position in Edingburgh that would enable him to continue his research._

_Just that morning, Carson had stood before his mirror, softly speaking to himself. He wanted to make certain he had every portion of today's ceremony in place. He straightened the Medici Crimson hood in his hands, seeing the ivory silk lining that designated him as a doctor, not simply another graduate. In accordance with tradition, he didn't wear a cap. Instead, a long hood draped down his back, the color indicating his chosen profession of medicine. "I swear in the presence of the Almighty and before my family, my teachers and my peers that according to my ability and judgment I will keep this Oath and Stipulation." He nodded and regarded himself in the mirror. "You're ready, Hot Shot. Just remember your lines."_

_When the time came for him to approach the Bedellus, he offered the crimson hood. As soon as the graduation cap touched his head, Carson looked down while the Medici Crimson hood was placed over his shoulders. He felt the weight of it settle in, draping down his back almost to his waist, creating a mental responsibility as the Bedellus's Latin words echoed in his mind. _"Te ad gradum Baccalaurei Scientiae Medicinae promoveo, cuius rei in symbolum super te hoc birretum impono."_ "I promote you to the Degree of Bachelor of Medical Science, as a symbol of which I place this cap upon you."_

_Carson regained his seat along with his fellow graduates, lifting his chin and straightening his shoulders. He'd done it. He'd proven himself worthy of joining the ranks of men and women who had graduated from this university and gone on to make history. Men like Sir James Black—who won the Nobel Prize in Medicine for developing medications that helped treat heart and stomach ulcers—and Edward Jenner—pioneer of the smallpox vaccine and sometimes called the "Father of Immunology." Carson only hoped that he'd make history like that one day._

_Finally, the time came for him to take the Hippocratic Oath. Most universities had their own version thereof, but the University of St. Andrews used a modern rendition of the original text. It was quite long, but Carson had memorized it rather than choosing to read it from a leaflet in front of him. He stood tall, speaking proudly as the oath began._

"_I swear in the presence of the Almighty and before my family, my teachers and my peers that according to my ability and judgment I will keep this Oath and Stipulation._

"_To reckon all who have taught me this art equally dear to me as my parents and in the same spirit and dedication to impart a knowledge of the art of medicine to others. I will continue with diligence to keep abreat of advances in medicine. I will treat without exception all who seek my ministrations, so long as the treatment of others is not compromised thereby, and I will seek the counsel of particularly skilled physicians where indicated for the benefit of my patient._

"_I will follow that method of treatment which according to my ability and judgment, I consider for the benefit of my patient and abstain from whatever is harmful or mischievous. I will neither prescribe nor administer a lethal dose of medicine to any patient even if asked nor counsel any such thing nor perform the utmost respect for every human life from fertilization to natural death and reject abortion that deliberately takes a unique human life._

_With purity, holiness and beneficence I will pass my life and practice my art. Except for the prudent correction of an imminent danger, I will neither treat any patient nor carry out any research on any human being without the valid informed consent of the subject or the appropriate legal protector thereof, understanding that research must have its purpose with the furtherance of the health of that individual. Into whatever patient setting I enter, I will go for the benefit of the sick and will abstain from every voluntary act of mischief or corruption and further from the seduction of any patient._

"_Whatever in connection with my professional practice or not in connection with it I may see or hear in the lives of my patients which ought not be spoken abroad, I will not divulge, reckoning that all such should be kept secret._

"_While I continue to keep this Oath unviolated. . . ."_

oOo

". . .may it be granted unto me to enjoy life and the practice of the art and science of medicine with the blessing of the Almighty and respect of my peers and society, but should I trespass and violate this Oath, may the reverse be my lot."

Carson leaned his head against the wall of his cell. He'd been so caught up in the memory of taking the Hippocratic Oath that he'd not even realized he'd spoken aloud. Though, now, to hear his own voice echoing back to him brought his current circumstances home.

He'd violated the Hippocratic Oath. By agreeing to help Michael, he'd broken the one thing he'd held sacred. While the words "First, do no harm" did not appear specifically in the Hippocratic Oath, he held to them with a passion. Or, rather, he had. Now, that proud moment in the Younger Hall in St. Andrews meant nothing. He wasn't sure he could ever face his parents again, nor his colleagues. And what would Elizabeth think?

Carson let out a deep breath. Sometime during the flashback, he'd sat up, and his feet now scuffed the concrete floor as he thought about his next course of action. He'd betrayed everything he held dear, but he still had his dignity. Or so he hoped. He _refused_ to do this kind of work again. Not without some serious coercion. And, if he saved a few lives in the process. . . .Well, it was why he'd become a doctor in the first place.

Not truly satisfied but feeling the slight sense of peace his decision brought, Carson lay down and resumed his nightly stare at the ceiling until his body shut down from pure exhaustion.

oOo

A month passed before Carson was ready to begin simulations. Those simulations failed—again—and he returned to his work. Every day, he thought about his promise to himself not to violate the Oath he'd taken when he graduated medical school. And every day he did what it took to survive. Michael clearly knew he questioned himself and made sure to keep a ready supply of humans on hand to kill if Carson even so much as resisted. That threat of death—and being prevented from helping the other person—pulled Carson back to the workbench day after day.

Three months after reaffirming his Hippocratic Oath, Carson sat back from his computer. The first of several simulations had succeeded, but he needed more time. Thinking quickly, he started another round of simulations, knowing that he'd be able to put Michael off. The Wraith wanted his research to succeed, and he hadn't been on this world for some time. Granted, Carson had been moved in that time, catching a glimpse of the symbols through the blindfold Michael's mercenaries had put on him. But he couldn't make any sense of his location. It was, as Michael termed it, "just another dead world."

Michael returned three days later with a new batch of victims. These were pushed into a large warehouse near Carson's lab, and he heard their cries at night when he was taken back to his cell. He'd become so accustomed to his solitary existence that the presence of young children crying for home shook him. He made sure his stubbornness showed in his attitude toward Michael, but he could do nothing save work. And take his injections. By now, he'd become so dependent on it that he started feeling ill early in the day of his injection. He never complained but offered his arm wearily, hoping for the night to pass quickly. When he awakened the next day, he felt refreshed and better. While it wasn't a high like most drugs, he knew he'd go through severe withdrawals if he ever stopped.

Finally, the day Carson dreaded came. He'd finished all the simulations he could run without arousing Michael's suspicions, and the Wraith paraded another group into the room. This time, Carson had set up "isolation units," as he called them, to contain the aerosolized serum. He'd heard stories from the mercenaries who had transported him from world to world, shuddering inwardly at the thought that Michael had been experimenting in a less than humane manner. Of course, none of this was humane. But word of monsters beyond the control of any human precipitated the news of Carson's latest "subjects," as Michael preferred them to be called.

The slam of the lab door brought Carson's head up from the microscope Michael had procured in his travels. It reminded him of Hoff, and his mind had traveled frequently to Perna. What if she had lived? Would he even be here? Or would he have been happily living with her? Now was not the time for those thoughts, however, and he watched the twenty or so victims huddle together.

Michael walked toward him. "I have brought you your patients, Doctor."

Carson sat back and eyed each of the people in the room. They stared at him in betrayal and anger, no doubt thinking he'd willingly worked with Michael. Not blaming them for their opinion, Carson pushed to his feet and walked toward them. He offered a soft smile but was met with angry glares and tears instead. As he got between them and the Wraith drones, he turned to face Michael. "No."

Michael actually blinked. "Dr. Beckett, you do realize what you are saying?"

"Aye, and I'm tellin' ya I'm not doin' it." Carson stood there, facing down the creature who had forced him beyond anything he'd thought in his power to do. "I won't be party to another mass death. I can't."

Michael lowered his chin. "Need I remind you of our agreement, Doctor?"

"You mean your torture?" Carson used these words deliberately, hoping to send a message to the group. "Aye, I remember your torture. I remember the broken bones that never healed right. And I remember your coercion. I'm tellin' ya I will not do this again."

A low murmur went through the group behind him. He heard words like "captive," "prisoner," and "traitor," but he didn't respond to a single one. The only being in this room that mattered at that moment was Michael, and that only because the creature was unpredictable.

Michael gave a quick nod to one of the drones, and the creature moved forward. He reared back with his stunner and struck Carson on the side of the head. The doctor went down, feeling the blood already starting to trickle down his temple. Pain blossomed beyond anything he'd known—save for the broken ribs—and he curled in on himself. Unfortunately, it left his kidneys open to attack, and another drone landed a powerful kick right in them. Carson tasted bile as he arched back, and Michael got in on the beating. The fists, feet, and stunners landed with regular blows, and the pain of fractured ribs, bruised organs, split lips, black eyes, and a concussion nearly overwhelmed him. When the beating mercifully ended, black spots dance before his eyes. He tried to push himself to his feet, but he got as far as getting an elbow under him before the pain caused his stomach to empty its meager contents. He finished retching and looked up in time to see Michael inject the first victim with the sedative. He closed his eyes against the cries as the Wraith ignored him and forced each of the victims into their own isolation unit. Unconsciousness swiftly overtook him, and he surrendered willingly.

oOo

Carson woke alone in a tiny cell, only a thin blanket and mattress his companions. The stars through the window told him that he'd been moved. . .again. Thinking of the people left behind on the previous world, he steeled himself against the pain and cried.

~TBC


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's Note:** My apologies to those of you waiting on this final chapter. I got caught up in housework and writing for my other Carson story and realized that I needed to post this. At something like 10PM. So, here it is. Thank you to everyone who read, specifically to **Ani-Maniac494** for the beta. As hard as this story was to read-and write-I felt it was necessary for our favorite Scottish doctor, filling in some blanks. Enjoy!

oOo

After the beating, the days blended together. Carson rose and ate mechanically, going to the lab with almost drone-like behavior to work in near solitude. The "patients" he'd taken the beating to protect ultimately died, leaving him in the position of grieving for people he never even knew. Like with the first group, he offered comfort to each one as they passed from this world. Death was a daily presence for him, and he learned to live with the guilt. And with the pain. After each death, he reminded himself of his Oath and resolved to do better next time. Each time, Michael allowed the drones to beat him, re-injuring barely healed wounds.

Time and time again, he thought of Atlantis. He'd been in Michael's custody for over a year, now, and he wondered why Atlantis had not come for him. Had they been deceived, thinking he was dead? Or had they simply been unable to find him? He knew Sheppard would not give up. At least, he believed Sheppard would not give up. But others, higher up than even Elizabeth, would see the expenditure as too much. They'd eventually order the Atlantis team to stop searching. He knew it because Elizabeth had struggled to comply with the IOA's wishes when Ford kidnapped Colonel Sheppard and his team. The only thing that saved her was that the IOA had no knowledge of how long the search went.

After another two batches of patients, Carson finally succeeded in creating the hybrid that Michael wanted. The Wraith watched in glee as the first of the hybrids rose from his bed and stood before him. The creature looked mostly human, but the skin had taken on the waxy cast of the Wraith. Carson had done what Michael asked. It was too much to imagine that he'd be released, but he hoped to never endure the ultimatum that he'd endured since his capture. Maybe, just maybe, he'd be able to escape now.

_No,_ Carson thought. _You couldn't escape before. What makes you think you can escape after a year and a half of captivity?_ Shaking his head as he entered his cell, he wondered that it had been that long. Eighteen long months blended into more of the same. Stone or concrete cells, dirty labs, frightened people, and multiple beatings as Carson tried his hardest to defend others. While he was forced to create this serum, he struggled to uphold his Oath.

Carson was given an entire week to rest after his success. Michael told him that he had another plan, another mission for Carson. That this one would be better. That he would be happy to fulfill his duties to the "cause." But he left Carson to wonder exactly when that would happen.

Seven days after his most recent move—the fifth or sixth since his incarceration—the door opened. Carson jumped to his feet as Michael strode in. The Wraith had always kept his hair cut short, similar to what the people from Atlantis had done when they'd transformed him into a human. But, now, he looked even more human. His teeth had straightened and become like a normal human being's, and his voice sounded slightly less deep.

"Dr. Beckett, I must commend you on your work." Michael held up his feeding hand and turned it toward Carson. "I did not believe it possible, but your work has enabled me to keep pressing forward with my purposes."

"I'm so glad for you," Carson said sarcastically.

Michael laughed. "Be as angry as you like, Dr. Beckett. If it was not for your work, I would not be where I am. In a rare twist of fate, I owe this victory to you."

"You mean my forced labor."

"Call it what you will." Michael eyed him. "How are you feeling, Dr. Beckett?"

Carson lifted his head, not admitting anything. But he didn't need to. He was already sweating, already weak and hardly able to stand.

Michael nodded and motioned for a hybrid—the drones had been either killed or converted—to step forward. The man, who looked vaguely familiar to Carson, handed Michael a syringe of the drug cocktail he'd been using for the past year. Carson thought about resisting, but he didn't have the strength. Instead, he waited while Michael injected the drugs into his arm and closed his eyes. At least he'd feel better by morning.

"Take your rest, Dr. Beckett." Michael handed the spent syringe to the hybrid. "Very soon, you will have more work to do." He left the cell, locking it and walking away.

Carson trudged over to the wooden plank and sat down. This plank was too short, resulting in him having to curl his legs to rest. He'd tossed the mattress on the floor most nights, choosing to stretch out while dreaming about Atlantis and the strange beds there. While they'd been too small for almost everyone, they'd been much more comfortable than this.

Torn between boredom, his stale dreams of rescue, and his reality, Carson dozed and spent the day twiddling his thumbs.

oOo

Over the next weeks, Carson escaped the cell three times. Once, Michael took him to a lab to set up for a maternity ward. He wondered exactly what the hybrid leader had in mind, and his heart went out to the hapless mother. But the work helped him stretch his muscles and get out of that bloody hole where he spent his days.

Then, Michael left again, this time to retrieve something. Carson suspected it was another prisoner, another person to experiment upon, but he hoped against hope that Michael was done with his macabre creations. Or, rather, that he was done forcing _Carson_ to work on his macabre creations.

"Probably too much to ask," he muttered as he paced his cell. He'd been here for four days this time. Michael had given him an injection before he left, saying it would be a week before he returned. Now, he dropped onto his bed and pulled his blanket over his legs. Maybe a nap would ease his boredom.

Gunfire startled him, and Carson dove for the ground. Of course, he was behind an iron door. A bullet could penetrate it, but it would have to be a rather strong bullet. He listened closely, hearing the gunfire drift away from his cell slightly and trudged back to his bed. His cell was tucked away from the main portion of this complex, and Carson knew whomever had come—his friends?—likely wouldn't even see it.

Finally, the gunfire died down, but Carson could hear nothing through the door. He waited patiently, knowing that the newcomers would either find him or leave him. A few moments later, a single gunshot clanged against his door. The blanket still wrapped around his legs from his startled dive was thrown aside as the door swung open. Carson stared up at the business end of two P90s and Ronon's blaster. Utterly shocked expressions crossed Sheppard's, Ronon's, and Rodney's faces as he jumped to his feet. "_Finally._ It's about bloody time!" He glanced between the three men, trying to figure out the shocked faces. "What took you so long?"

oOo

A day later, Carson understood the shock. He was shocked himself. He'd arrived on Atlantis, was taken directly into quarantine, and had so much blood drawn he'd nearly fainted. After a good meal—the best he'd had in two years—Rodney came to see him. And the news Rodney brought shook everything Carson had believed.

Another version of him had returned to Atlantis from M8G-352, had resumed _his_ duties, had lived _his_ life while he languished in Michael's prison. About the time that the first simulations had succeeded even if the live trials had failed miserably, the other Carson had died in an explosion. Atlantis hadn't been looking for him at all. They'd been _mourning_ his death.

Now, however, he walked back into the room he'd been given and sat down on the edge of his bed. He understood the reason Sheppard and Ronon had stared, why Rodney had hesitated to come see him, why Jennifer had drawn so much blood, why everyone seemed so strange around him. He was a clone of a dead man, a cheap copy. Michael hadn't captured him. Michael had _created_ him. He hadn't endured medical school or left Scotland when the SGC recruited him. He only had those memories because Michael implanted them into him.

In reality, he didn't know how to handle that. Everything he'd believed for the last two years was false. Michael had called him "Dr. Beckett," but he wasn't really a doctor. Was he? He had all the knowledge he'd needed, and he'd learned everything he could while in Michael's custody.

_The real Carson Beckett wouldn't be standing here feeling sorry for himself. He'd be trying to figure out how to help us._ Rodney's words came back to him, along with the physicist's affirmation that his best friend had come back from the dead. Carson couldn't understand the shock in that. He did feel sorry for himself, and he needed time to sort through the emotions of losing everything he thought to be true. But, at the same time, Atlantis needed him.

That realization pulled him from his doldrums. He could mope and pout, and he would take the time to work out his place here. But Atlantis needed his assistance. He had information from his time in Michael's custody that could help. Of course, he could have some sort of unconscious programming, but that shouldn't stop him from figuring out how to help them save Teyla.

Suddenly, Carson froze. He pictured the hybrid who had been with Michael when he'd received his last injection of sedative. No wonder the man looked familiar. He was _Athosian_! Michael had kidnapped the Athosians and started experimenting on them. But why Teyla? Unless. . . .He rubbed his face as he thought about the maternity ward Michael had forced him to create. _Teyla_ was the unlucky mother?

Carson pushed to his feet and walked to the door. The security guards there turned to him, and he stopped just outside the door of his guest quarters. "I need to speak to Colonel Carter."

oOo

Two days later, Carson lay in a hospital bed. In the time that he'd been freed, he'd reconnected with Rodney, spent time with Jennifer, and worked to save his own life. He wasn't addicted to the drugs Michael had been giving him. He _needed_ them to survive. Unfortunately, Jennifer couldn't recreate them in the time he had left. The necrosis in his internal organs was too far advanced.

Teyla had not been recovered, though Carson had seen her. He'd had Michael in his sights, and yet he'd been unable to pull the trigger. Rodney said it wasn't his fault, that Michael had created him susceptible to the Wraith mind link. But Carson wanted to believe that he could have done something. The hatred he felt for the Wraith was magnified seeing him walk away with a very pregnant Teyla and knowing he could do absolutely nothing. In some ways, Carson hated himself.

Jennifer pushed a wheelchair to his bed, and Carson knew he was out of time. The only way to save his life was to go into suspended animation—stasis. He knew his own prognosis, knew the chances of Jennifer finding the cure were slim. Michael wouldn't give up those answers easily, though Colonel Sheppard would certainly try.

Jennifer wordlessly helped him into the wheelchair, her sadness evident in the tears in her eyes. Carson had taught her well—the other Carson, that is. Though _this_ Carson had all those memories and had finally been accepted among these people. He'd taken the time to write his mother a letter, saying goodbye in a way only he knew. He'd already thought of an excuse for why it came so late, and he'd cried over the reality that he'd likely never see Scotland again. His time in the infirmary had given him a few moments to accept his fate as a clone. It was a comfort to realize that his beliefs about Atlantis not leaving him behind were true, even if misplaced due to his origins. But, beyond that, he resolved to live. If he never came out of the stasis pod, he'd never have to think about this again. But, if he did, he'd decided that he wanted to enjoy the time he had available to him. Find a productive way to help undo what Michael had forced him to create.

Jennifer stayed silent as she wheeled him into the stasis room. Everyone had gathered: Sheppard, Rodney, Ronon, and Carter. Carson felt Teyla's absence all the more considering her shocked and frightened expression when she saw him. But he'd clearly been able to convince her that he meant the best for her. Though, his weakness to Michael's mind link undid all of that.

Goodbyes passed too quickly for Carson. Finally, he stepped up inside the stasis pod and turned around to look at the faces gathered. "I want you all to know that seeing you again these last few days—it was all worth it, no matter what happens."

Rodney ignored the sad nods and attempts at smiles. "You know, I was toying with the idea of programming dreams into these things. Interested? I could have you fishing in the Highlands with a couple of tall blond massage therapists?"

Carson barely refrained from rolling his eyes at the typical Rodney fantasy. Though fishing in the Highlands sounded perfectly charming, Carson wasn't sure he'd be able to handle waking and knowing he'd never go back home. "No, Rodney. I'll be fine."

Rodney's smile turned forced. "That's right—you _will_ be, you know? 'Cause this is not 'Goodbye.' This is. . .this is. . .uh. . .this is 'See you later.' That's what we agreed."

"Did we?" Carson frowned at him.

"That's how I remember it," Rodney said stubbornly.

Carson tried to smile. "Alright, then." He straightened and included everyone in his gaze. "See you later."

Rodney hesitated a few moments before activating the stasis field. It gave Carson just enough time to think about what was important. He had been rescued, finally. He'd been able to uphold his Oath to the best of his ability. _I will follow that method of treatment which according to my ability and judgment, I consider the benefit of my patient and abstain from whatever is harmful or mischievous. I will neither prescribe nor administer a lethal dose of medicine to any patient even if asked nor counsel any such thing nor perform the utmost respect for every human life from fertilization to natural death and reject abortion that deliberately takes a unique human life._ In spite of being a clone, _he_ was a unique human life. In those few seconds before the cold blast of the stasis bod activated around him, Dr. Carson Beckett, MD, reaffirmed his Hippocratic Oath.

The blast froze him in place, halting the cellular degeneration of his internal organs. But, after reaffirming his Oath, Carson thought of one other thing.

He was home.

~The End~


End file.
